


These Are The Things About You

by tiptoe39



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, First Time, M/M, Porn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:05:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways being paralyzed together leads to hot sex, and one way it leads to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are The Things About You

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [this song.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ8vtp9K_nE) Thanks to [](http://miya-tenaka.livejournal.com/profile)[**miya_tenaka**](http://miya-tenaka.livejournal.com/) for the beta!

**Weight (i)**

There's some force at work in the universe that keeps planting Stiles on top of him.

In a pool, on a floor, against a wall, it doesn't matter, the weight of him is always there. Even when it's not, sometimes Derek can feel it. The weight of humanity, of worry and racing thoughts, of the constant desire to do something beyond what the limits of frail bones and fair skin can allow. Derek can't imagine what it's like to be that helpless. He doesn't like trying. But when Stiles is around, he can't help it.

That was the one thing that had sustained him when everything went up in flames. He'd find the person responsible. He'd do something about it. He had that power.

But Stiles weighs on him. Stiles and his mortality, his weakness. He has no right to burden Derek with his foolish humanity. Derek tries to shake it off. But the weight is not just weakness. The weight is determination. Stubbornness to the point of annoyance. Stiles never stops trying, though he's ordinary, he's nobody. Even when Matt leered over the two of them and Derek tried to goad him closer, Stiles had to weigh in. "Yeah, bitch," he'd added to Derek's taunt, as though it sounded like anything but a sad little tag, a parody of itself.

The words echo in Derek's ears.

He lies in the dirt near his old home, staring up at the sky and trying to recall the feeling of having Stiles' weight on his. It's stupid, but even if someone found him here, no one could guess what he's doing. It's safe inside his own head, isn't it?

Stiles, skinny and lukewarm, a pressure on his chest and the side of his ribcage. Legs on his legs. Body tensing minutely as he tried to spur his muscles to movement. Horrible little twitches, beyond annoying, on his skin, making it impossible to concentrate. And they never stopped. No matter how long they lay there, the twitches never stopped. Stiles never stopped trying to move.

To save his friend. To save his dad.

Derek runs his hand over his body where Stiles had been. The warmth seeps down from his hand, through his clothes and into his skin. He wants it again. Wants Stiles on top of him, infuriatingly human. If his hand ventures lower, touches a part of him Stiles didn't touch, it's because he wants to feel something that intensely again. To want to save someone even though it's impossible. It takes a level of determination Derek doesn't have, because he has the luxury of power. If he could tap into that, he'd be unstoppable.

It has nothing to do with the concept of Stiles grabbing him there. Nothing to do with thin fingers sliding along the length of him, as tricky and incorrigible as the rest of Stiles is. Torturing him, never letting him forget for a moment who it is on top of him. Whispering half-baked little teases in his ear. _You like that, Derek? You wish I was doing that to you right now, don't you? Getting you off? If your little pack only knew you were lying here, all alone, thinking of me, of all people. Wanting me. Imagine that. You want me._

Derek growls and lets the wash of orgasm take him over. He pulses hot and sticky over his hand, pants, and stares straight up. The tall, bare stalks of the trees seem to bend and twist in the air above him. Dancing. Taunting. The ground seems to rock beneath his back.

He's light-headed. He needs something to anchor him.

He needs weight.

Some minutes later, he's getting to his feet, surveying the woods around him to make sure he hasn't been seen. The coast is clear, but there's something out of the ordinary in the air, something in sight or smell that's different. Derek's hackles go up, the hair rising on his skin, and he looks around, focusing in his red-tinted wolf's vision, trying to identify the source.

When he sees it, he doesn't know how he could have thought it was anything else.

Several yards away, against a tree. Still and lost in thought.

Stiles is there.

**Scent (ii)**

Stiles has no idea what it must be like to smell _everything._ The thought frankly scares the crap out of him. He spends too much time as it is smelling jock sweat, wet dog, rotten cafeteria fruit, you name it. Even gasoline makes him kind of nauseated. Good thing the Jeep has decent gas mileage.

He doesn't envy Scott or the rest of the wolves their hypersensitive sniffers. No, thanks. He's not interested. Yet another reason he's glad he didn't take the bite when it was offered him.

Which is why he's doubly annoyed when he can't get Derek's scent out of his nose.

He has a noseful of it for way too long. And unlike the time they spent trapped in the pool, when the chlorine drowned it out, he was stuck breathing it in for a good long time before he managed to roll onto the floor beside Derek. By then it had found a permanent home in his sinuses, and when Derek finally got his senses back and made for the jail cell, Stiles couldn't figure out what the weird itch in his nose was.

Now he gets it. It's the absence of Derek. It's Dereklessness.

Not completely, though. He's not totally devoid of that weird dark presence lurking in his skull. On the contrary, he keeps catching bits and snatches of it. A tree he passes (must be the same kind of tree that grows outside Derek's place). The whiff of a leather jacket (not as worn as Derek's, a little fresher, but similar). Something fragrant he can't place at all (where did it come from? Behind that wall? Below the sidewalk? Overhead?). Little pieces, reminders, and they keep seeping into his brain and making him think of Derek.

He inhales deeply when he gets a trace of the scent. He feels wholer somehow with it ringing around inside his skull. The piece of Derek's scent is a piece of completeness, and he doesn't know why.

He's standing outside a leather goods shop, breathing in the scent of the tanned pelts, when he realizes he's actively craving Derek's scent. Not a piece of it. Not the tree or the leather or the strange fragrance. All of it. His pulse speeds up. He wants to breathe in the totality of it again, because with that scent came warmth, came a strange thrilling certainty.

With that smell in his nose, even when he couldn't move a muscle, even panicking, he was safe.

He drives out to the wood, tramps over the pine needles and the fallen branches, and takes in a breathful of the memory. Leaning against a tree, his eyes closed, he can feel the history of this place, can feel Derek's comings and goings, and for an instant the scent is as fresh in his lungs as it had been in those terrified moments in the police station. His chin tilts up, and he imagines that Derek's right there, leaning into him, letting Stiles sniff at his skin. He'd probably growl, grimace, but Stiles doesn't care. All that matters in that moment is that Derek's letting him be close. Letting him have that certainty and safety surrounding him again.

He doesn't expect the fantasy to take him into a kiss, but he doesn't fight it, either. The scent couldn't steer him wrong. And it still is only a fantasy, with his mouth just imagining the wet claim of Derek's on his, his tongue conjuring up the silk of Derek's lips. The stubble brushing his skin is an illusion, and the shadow falling over him only exists in his mind's eye.

And the scent –

No, the scent is too strong to be a lie. He opens his eyes.

Derek, the real Derek, is standing over him, his lips wet and parted, staring down at him with wild, confused eyes.

Stiles whimpers, leans forward, and inhales.

**Eyes (iii)**

Their faces were the only things they could still move, and even that with effort; the numbness that pervaded Derek's limbs seeped up into his neck, made his jaw cold. It was easy to power through the tingling in his lips with anger, growl threats at Matt and jabs at Stiles when they were left alone together for far too long, but it still took more effort than he cared to exert.

So at some point he gave up and just stayed still, his eyes slid to the side, staring at Stiles. He didn't really care if it made Stiles uncomfortable (he kind of liked the idea that it did). What disturbed him was when Stiles adopted the same tactic and started staring back. They engaged in several minutes of a numbed-out, frustrated staring contest, and Derek found to his consternation that he wasn't able to lose focus, to stare past Stiles and see some faraway place. He remained focused on the bright brown globes of Stiles' irises, aware of the minute movements of his brow and the twitches of muscle around his eyes. And after he'd turned his head upright again, they stayed with him, like the afterimage when one looks at a bright light for too long. Stiles' eyes reflected in fuzzy brown illusions before his vision, and worse, they still seemed focused on him.

What could Stiles see with those eyes? Not the prey-oriented vision of a wolf, but the empathetic gaze of a human being who cared far too much. Derek wondered if there was something missing from his own vision, some gift Stiles had that Derek, who was born a werewolf, had traded for his strength and reflexes.

Now, with his mouth burning and his mind blown into disarray, he stares at Stiles again and realizes there really is something he's not seeing. But not because he's not capable of it. It was missing from the moment they were lying in that room together, and it's missing now.

Fear. Stiles isn't afraid of him anymore.

He turns away and starts back toward the house. Stiles catches him by the elbow almost immediately, yanking him around. Derek goes with it. He never really expected to escape anyway.

"What was that?" Stiles asks.

As though he doesn't know. He wants to shame Derek into saying it. Idiot. "A mistake," Derek snaps at him. "It never happened." He tries to turn again, and doesn't expect to escape this time, either.

"Maybe... maybe it wasn't," Stiles says, and this time when he reaches out his hand catches Derek's wrist. Derek's hands sharpen into claws, an anemic attempt at intimidation, but Stiles has a sort of rage state of his own, when he's so single-minded and determined that he can't be swayed by the threat of pain. Derek saw it the other night in the police station. He feels it here, even beneath the unsteady wobbling of Stiles' voice. "Maybe we should talk about... about what just happened."

"Fine." Derek shakes him off and folds his arms over his chest. "Talk."

"Um." Stiles' gaze falters, for the first time, but only momentarily. "You kissed me."

Derek hides a flinch at the word. "And?"

"And, uh... I didn't think I was your type."

"You're not. Like I said. Mistake."

"Well, what made you do it, then?" Stiles' voice strains to almost a shout. "I mean, I know that stressful situations can create chemistry, that's just basic psychology, and... and I get that we've sort of been stuck together a lot lately, but is that all? I mean, is there--" He winces, then forces a huge smile and laugh. "God, what am I talking about? You know what? Never mind. You're right. Mistake. My bad. See ya, Derek."

He waves, waits expectantly for Derek to turn back toward the house and leave him there. Derek considers it. It's clearly the smartest thing to do. But Stiles' eyes aren't smiling, and Derek harbors no illusions that they won't be following him the whole way back, that Derek won't still feel their heat no matter where he is. Not to mention the heat of Stiles' unasked question. That's more than he can comfortably handle.

"Is there _what?_ " he asks.

Stiles swallows hard. His gaze burns bright into Derek's vision. There's anxiety in his eyes, but still no fear. And, Derek realizes, an unfamiliar light he recognizes as tentative hope.

"Is there..." He falters. "Is there any way I can get you to do it again?"

His cheeks flush. He takes in an unsteady breath, and he braces for a hit.

"You want me to do it again," Derek says.

"Well." Stiles shrugs. "It was good. And, uh... maybe Matt was onto something. When he said we make a good pair. I mean, granted he was a gigantic psycho, but--"

"Shut up."

The words don't get Stiles to quiet down. But Derek's body against his does the trick.

Derek groans as the familiar weight presses against him again. He wanted this, maybe more than Stiles did, enough that a few minutes ago he'd been actively imagining it. Stiles doesn't need to know that part, but it at least gives Derek some comfort that he's still a step ahead of Stiles, even as the dizzying warmth of it threatens to turn the forest on its ear and topple him. Thigh on thigh. Hip to hip. Every inch in contact, and Stiles swallows, bites his lip and stares at Derek open-mouthed, as though the words will somehow come magically to his lips if he stands there long enough.

"You want me to do this again." Derek leans in and swipes his mouth against Stiles', just once. The contact strikes him like a punch to the gut.

Stiles nods, his lips still pursed. It takes him effort to say "Yeah. Y-eah. Again."

Derek leans in and sucks on his lips, then lets go.

"Again," Stiles says.

Derek licks his lip with a flickering tongue.

Stiles' voice is no more than a breath. "Again." He raises his hands to land on Derek's shoulders, then clasp behind his neck.

Derek does it again.

**Blood (iv.)**

Derek bled out on that office floor. He'd just torn himself open and gone. Stiles doesn't think he could do that if he tried. For one thing, his nails are blunt. They barely scratch. But even if he had claws like a werewolf's, he doesn't think he'd be able to stand the pain. He has to lie down when they draw blood from him at the doctor's office. He's just really, really bad with blood.

He watched Derek's face carefully as he lay there and bled, saw the pain furrow his brow and reflect in his gaze. Derek's fingers stayed in the wound, twisting when he could force them to, keeping the wounds fresh and gaping. Time slowed to a crawl as Stiles watched, and he remembered the last time they took blood from him, how the pinching pain and accompanying knot in his stomach had seemed to go on for hours. It wasn't macho, but that's what doctor-patient confidentiality was for.

Derek didn't have that problem, not by a long shot. He was so accustomed to pain, to bleeding and healing, that he could actually keep his own wound open. Didn't he feel the sick nausea that came from blood continuing to flow? Was he panicking inside? Stiles couldn't see it. Maybe it's different when you're a wolf. Maybe the drive to kill carries with it an immunity. No point having bloodlust when you're scared of blood.

Bloodlust scares Stiles. He's seen it in Scott, he's seen it in Derek and Jackson and Peter and Isaac and all the rest of them, and every single time it scares him. He has no idea what that must be like, to want something so much you lose yourself, you lose all of your morals and your pride and become a creature.

He understands it now.

And he's clinging, trembling and holding tight, mouth pressed to Derek's in a lock that's not so much a kiss as a seal. Derek licks into his mouth, slides his tongue along Stiles' and breathes hot into him. He's got a hard-on that Stiles can feel against his own, big and bulging, outlined in the tight stretch of his jeans. Stiles' head is swimming. He wants so much his repository of cleverness has dried up. How can he still be himself like this? Through this overwhelming rush of lust that he knows he will follow, irrevocably, to the end?

They make it inside, into the dusty, stifling air, and Derek breaks the kiss to look at him. His face is pale – paler, at least, since he's always looking pretty tanned – and there's no smile, no intimidation in his face. It's as blank and unsure as Stiles has ever seen him, and half of Stiles wants to reach out and tell at him it'll be OK.

The other half doesn't want him to come back to himself. If he does, this will end.

"Derek," he whispers, and Derek pauses, nose touching his, lips trembling just a breath away. Stiles clambers down carefully to stand on his own two feet. "Just so you know, I am ..." A huff of breath. Stiles' hands rake down his chest to his stomach, wrap again around his waist. "I am totally, one hundred percent into this." He steps forward, plasters his body against Derek's the way Derek had leaned on him before, against the tree. This time there's no gravity, no counterpoint. Just the push of Stiles' body against Derek's, active, wanting.

Derek blinks. Stiles leans in, darting, and kisses the hollow of his throat. He sucks in a breath and groans. Low, guttural, intensely sexy. Stiles shudders. He gets a flash of inspiration and rolls his hips up, slow, teasing. Their dicks press into each other, hard on hard, and this time Derek gives a full-throated cry and grabs his hips, rocking them together.

The heat is almost more than Stiles can stand. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, a sound like a _nngh_ making it out from beneath the obstruction, and growls. His hands slide under Derek's shirt, and Derek jumps, but doesn't tell him to stop. Derek doesn't say anything.

Stiles isn't good with silence.

"One condition," he says, the words all jumbled and rushing. "No fangs, no claws. No turning me. Other than that, I'm all yours."

Still no response. But Derek's fingers curl under the waistband of his slacks and tease at the cheeks of his ass. Stiles arches forward. He needs more already. Needs to be torn to pieces, to bleed out all of the pent-up want that's choking him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "It's all good. I'm good with it. Not the way I thought I'd lose it, but--"

Derek stops. His eyes widen. "Lose what?"

Stiles doesn't need to answer him.

"You're still a virgin." Derek rolls his eyes.

"Don't tell me you're surprised!" Stiles rocks up against him again, making sure he hasn't killed Derek's boner through a single sentence. "Wait, _you're_ not, are you?"

"No!" Derek shoves him back. But blood is rushing back to his face, curing the paleness and then some.

"Then what's the problem?"

"No problem." Derek advances on him.

Stiles half-laughs. "You've never done it with a guy!"

"Doesn't matter." Derek makes a swiping grab for him.

"Sure it does. Hey, look, don't worry, I've read websites." Derek growls. Stiles falls over himself and lands on the floor. "Oh, God, you're worse than I am, you're actually a _blushing_ virgin!"

"Shut up." Derek drops to his knees and grabs him, kissing him hard, teeth grazing his lip. Stiles forgets the cat-and-mouse game in a moment and melts, pressing up against the gravity of his body. Derek's all muscle, hard and hot over him, the frame of his shoulders pinning Stiles down as they fall to the ground. One thick thigh wedges in between his, and Stiles groans and rides against it, balls and cock bursting with heat during each push, throbbing for more when he pulls back.

He's whispering things, now, little things that fall into Derek's mouth and die unheard there, but he knows what they are... _come on_ and _so good_ and more than one _fuck me_. For a moment he despairs that Derek will ever get that far, and Stiles is desperately afraid he's going to pull a classic high-schooler and come in his pants before Derek even touches him. But he manages to hold himself back long enough for Derek to pull off his own shirt, then pull down Stiles' slacks with one angry tug.

"Stiles," Derek whispers into his mouth after kissing him, thoroughly, one more time.

Stiles gulps. "Wh-what?"

"You--" Derek's eyes flicker away in a moment of bashfulness. "You said you'd read websites...."

 

**Movement (v.)**

Derek would have killed to have the use of his arm to slap Stiles across the face.

"Dude, _I_ can move my toes," he'd said.

Meanwhile, Derek had been bleeding, enduring constant pain in an attempt to shake the effects of the poison, and Stiles had to disparage his effort right off the bat. Granted, it wasn't working quite as Derek had hoped, but Stiles didn't have to be an ass about it.

Who was he kidding? Stiles had to be an ass about everything. Always inserting himself, always insisting on involvement. Always saying that he had a dog in this fight, a generations-long battle between werewolves and hunters and among clans. Stiles was a dilettante. He'd happened upon this because he happened to be friends with Scott, who'd happened to get bitten. He had no right to be anywhere near as present in every crisis as he was.

And yet he was. When Derek was stuck in that pool, it wasn't with his pack, it was with Stiles. When Jackson murdered people at the rave, he arrived and found himself side-by-side with Stiles. Here, when Scott and Jackson and Matt and Stiles' father and the hunters were all converging on the police station, he was paralyzed on the floor of an office. With Stiles. He shouldn't have been surprised anymore.

And Stiles could move his goddamn toes.

A moment later, when Derek got back the use of his legs within two minutes and Stiles was still lying there twitching his feet, he was vindicated. Being a werewolf still offered some advantages where fighting the Kanima was concerned. But it didn't solve the overall problem. Which was Stiles. Everywhere he was. Insisting on being a part of his life, and refusing to stay in the background.

Of course Derek noticed him. How could he not? He was an arrogant, overenthusiastic, hyperactive little squirt, practically daring Derek to try to smack him down. Hold him down. Own him. Conquer him.

For the first time, Derek thinks he might have earned some measure of success in that fight.

Stiles is bracing under him, face pale, looking carefully down the length of his body to where Derek is working into him. He doesn't have room to speak a word; he's too busy breathing shallowly, trying to keep himself still and calm. His palms are pressed against the floorboards.

Derek hears himself make a small, choked noise when he works the head of his cock past Stiles' hastily stretched rim. It's tight and hot, almost claustrophobic, but the suction is incredible. He wants more, wants to slam into Stiles with violence, take the full measure of the pleasure Stiles' body can give him. But no. Not like that. Not like a werewolf fucks. Among other things, Stiles would never let him live it down.

His eyes flicker to Stiles', gauging him. Stiles nods. "More," he says in a thin voice. "It's good."

Derek reaches out and draws a palm across Stiles' erection. He's barely dared to touch it, but Stiles looks so pained right now, he feels like he has to do something. And he gets a response – Stiles rolls his head back, pants, and purrs in his throat. "Good," he murmurs. "More."

It's like this – a little movement, a stroke, a few words – that Derek finally finds himself buried inside Stiles to the hilt. For a long moment they stare at each other, wordless, amazed. These small steps are the culmination of a dance that's been going on much longer, and Derek knows it now, knows Stiles knows it. He leans forward and presses a single kiss to Stiles' lips. A kiss that can even be called gentle.

Stiles moans into it. "Move," he says.

Derek leans in as close as he can get, opens his mouth to Stiles', and shifts up against him. Stiles gasps. His legs wrap around Derek's waist, locking him in close and tight, and the two of them breathe long, fraught breaths into each other's mouths. Stiles' forehead is dotted with beads of sweat, and new ones appear with each thrust forward and rock down. He exhales, tipping his head back, with each relenting withdrawal. His hand finds its way between them and starts to rub his cock in earnest.

Blood races through Derek's limbs. There's something here beyond bloodlust, beyond the desire to rule and conquer, and as much as it mystifies him, he can't reject it. All he knows is that with each rock of their bodies, each massage and sweep of their lips together, he's delving further and further into some territory he's never discovered, and he wants to see more of it. Wants to see how far he can go.

He feels his toes now, too. He can feel them curling.

"Derek, oh, my God," Stiles whispers in his ear, and he whites out, coming with a ferocious roar that brings out enough wolf to make his fangs poke at his gumline. He promised, though, and he holds them back, just shuddering into Stiles' embrace as spasm after spasm shakes the tension from his muscles and reduces him to a quivering pup, burying his head in Stiles' shoulder, fully spent. Stiles massages his shoulders, rubs his back, and smiles against the crook of his neck. "That's OK," he murmurs. "It was good, huh? It was good for me too."

Derek raises his head. "You didn't..."

Stiles shrugs. "Nothing's perfect the first time around."

Derek growls. Stiles' eyes widen for an instant before they're closing tight as Derek starts his shallow thrusts again, rising up onto his knees so he can grab Stiles' cock with both hands and jerk him off roughly. It takes about thirty seconds for Stiles to start grabbing at Derek's arms, babbling "I'm gonna, I'm gonna," and then clamp down on his forearms tight as he jerks into Derek's palms and comes in long spurts that pool on Stiles' belly and wet Derek's hands.

Then and only then does Derek pull out of him, wipe his hands on the floorboards, and settle down beside him.

Stiles' rapid breaths sound like victory.

**and**

**you (i.)**

 

"All right," Stiles says, looking up at the cobweb-infested rafters. "So that happened."

"That happened," Derek echoes in his usual grunt.

Stiles' brain whirls. Wow, so much has changed in such a short time it almost makes the whole werewolf thing feel devoid of drama in comparison. OK, so that's not a good analogy, but as for things that affect Stiles directly, this is pretty major. He's lost his virginity. He's had sex. He's been fucked.

By a guy, but that was a 50-50 tossup anyway. He'd bet even money on Lydia, but that was never a sure thing no matter how much he wanted to believe it was gonna happen. In the end, the gender wasn't what mattered to him.

But by Derek --- now _that_ one he never could have seen coming.

And he's good with it. Better with it than he thought he'd be. No post-orgasmic regret, no sudden realization that this was the worst mistake of his life. Or even that with Derek, there's no guarantee of a future beyond one quick go-round on the floor of an abandoned home. Whatever happens, whatever awkwardness comes tomorrow, Stiles is really, really glad this happened.

Because it's Derek. He doesn't know why that makes it okay, but it does.

Stiles fingers the tack of the drying come on his belly. "You didn't have to do that, you know," he says weakly. "You know, that last bit."

Derek doesn't answer.

"But you did," Stiles goes on. "Which I guess means... what? I'm not just an easy outlet for your frustrated sexuality? No, I can't be. You'd have found someone else."

His head rolls to the side. Derek is staring straight up. He says nothing.

"Which means," he says, happily, "you actually care about me."

Derek blows air through his lips derisively.

"I don't hear you denying it."

Still nothing.

"You must be madly in love with me, and don't know it yet. Yep, that's the only plausible explanation. Poor Derek, the tragic figure who's madly in love with the human Stiles. How can they ever find happiness? It's like the Little Mermaid, but with claws instead of..." Stiles makes a face. "Instead of fishy things."

Derek rolls his eyes. Which is as close to a response as Stiles figures he's going to get.

"Well, at the very least, I know one thing," he says sunnily. "You liked being paralyzed next to me in that office. Because look, here we are again!"

_Now_ Derek looks at him. "That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Stiles shrugs. "At the very least, this is a better reason for being unable to move, huh?"

Derek smiles.

He actually, honestly, full-on, _smiles._

"Yeah," he says, and his hand just barely touches the corner of Stiles' little finger.

Oh, yeah. It's true love.


End file.
